Grace Interrupted (20 page)

Jack reached over and opened his passenger window. “Grace,” he said, “I’m so sorry.” Before I could answer, he threw the vehicle into park and ran out around the front of it. Fighting back my irritation, I waited.

“I am so sorry,” he said again.

I waved away his apology even as I took a step back. “It’s okay. Maybe we just aren’t supposed to go out together.”

“No, no. Look at you. You dressed up. And I let you down.”

I desperately wished I’d taken Bruce’s advice and worn jeans. My reply came out snappish and defensive. “I always wear skirts.”

“Let me make it up to you. I can’t even begin to tell you everything that’s gone wrong.”

“I’m not really in the mood to go out anymore.”

We were directly outside my front door, Jack edging closer as he spoke. I had peripheral view of one of the closest windows. The drapes moved, then moved again. Was Bruce spying on us? I hoped to heaven it was Bootsie instead.

“Grace, I don’t blame you for being angry.”

“I’m not angry.”

“You’re hurt, and that’s worse.”

“You want to know the truth? My ego is a little bruised, that’s all. I’ll get over it. I’ve gotten over bigger disappointments.”

“They hauled Davey in for questioning,” he said. “Interrogation. I had to go down there.”

Like sugar in hot tea, my anger instantly dissolved. “He’s in jail?” I knew Tank suspected him, but she’d given no indication that he was about to be arrested. What was all that blather she gave me about transparency?

“Not anymore,” Jack said. “My dad went down there with him and I got there as fast as I could. We called our lawyer and he came down, too. The cops said they just needed to clear up a few open issues, but you know how they are. They’ll tell you anything to get what they want.”

“But what
could
Davey tell them? Wasn’t he under sedation when the murder occurred? Did they forget he had a broken nose?”

“The cops consulted some quack doctor who said it was ‘theoretically possible’ for him to have killed Kincade. Yeah, well, just like it’s theoretically possible for Bennett Marshfield to come in first in a marathon.”

In his age group, Bennett had a fair shot. But I let that go. I was stunned by the news. “They think Davey killed Zachary Kincade?”

“That’s how they see it.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I swear, Grace, if it had been anything else, anything at all, I would have blown it off. But Davey needed me.” He grimaced. “I heard he quit Marshfield, too.”

“He did.”

“I’m sorry you’ve been pulled into the middle of all this family stuff. This hasn’t been fair to you.”

A car meandered down the street and we both watched it navigate around the double-parked pickup. Jack eyed me warily. He looked ready to bolt and move the vehicle if necessary, but at the same time worried that if he did, I might scurry inside.

“I understand.” And I did.

He heaved a deep sigh. “Thank you, Grace.”

“How is he?” I asked. “Davey?”

He looked away. “They should have taken me instead.”

“What?”

“Davey can’t handle this.”

“But you said he’s out of jail.”

“You don’t understand.” He turned to face me again. “Davey isn’t . . . completely stable.” He must have read alarm in my expression because he hastened to add, “I don’t mean he’s dangerous or capable of violence. He’s just not strong. Ever since the last time this happened he’s had . . . problems.”

I’d told Tank that Davey was much too young to have killed Lyle Kincade but now I wondered. Teenagers killed people all the time, and I didn’t know Davey all that well. The young man did appear conflicted and depressed. Could he be haunted by guilt? “I’m sorry,” I said again. “We can make this another time. Maybe you should go back and be with him.”

“He’s with Dad for now. It’s okay.”

I was no longer interested in our date this evening and I could tell Jack wasn’t either, but the intensity in his eyes warned that canceling now would be the last straw in a series of backbreaking events.

“Please,” he said, “can’t we make at least one thing go right tonight?”

He was counting on me to turn this terrible day around. Maybe Frances was right. Maybe he was trouble. Emotions jockeyed for position, making my head ache, my heart twist, and my stomach tumble. I didn’t know what to do.

He waited, silently encouraging me.

“Sure,” I said.

 

 

WE LEFT JACK’S CAR IN MY DRIVEWAY AND walked the short distance to Hugo’s. Our conversation centered on the lovely weather and the lovely homes, safe subjects that allowed us to restore equilibrium to the evening. Although I completely understood the reason for Jack’s tardiness, it took several blocks of strolling along Emberstowne’s tree-shaded streets to help me square emotion with logic. Jack seemed to sense that and except for him pointing out an occasional plant he thought might be a good choice for my yard, he stayed quiet. The silence allowed us both to decompress.

The restaurant was relatively empty and I was glad. During the busy tourist season—which would peak in a couple of weeks—there was often a line out the door and a two-hour wait for a table. Jack and I were seated on the far left of the dining room at a table for four. I liked the slightly secluded location. Rather than sitting directly across from me, Jack chose the chair kitty-corner to my left.

The waitress recited the evening’s specials then took our drink orders—a glass of merlot for me, a Heineken for him—before leaving us alone to study the leather-bound menus. I decided on the Cobb salad just as our drinks arrived. We placed our food orders—Jack chose the trout special—and the waitress was off again.

Jack raised his beer. “To finally having a real date?”

I clinked his bottle with the edge of my glass. “To real dates,” I said, and sipped my wine. “Mmm . . . very good.” I swirled the ruby liquid in my glass. “Hugo’s buys their wines from my roommates. This is one of my favorites.”

“That’s nice of them.”

“Good business, too. Keeps things local.”

“How’s the cat?”

“Great.”

He took a long drink of his beer and held the sweating bottle between his hands as he surveyed the dining room. “Happening place tonight, huh?”

Not much to say to that, so I nodded. “I like it.”

“That’s good.”

Quiet settled upon us again, but this time I was uncomfortable. We didn’t have an elephant in the room, we had a Tank. I decided to face it head-on.

“Did the detectives say anything else?” I asked. “I mean, when you were down there with Davey?”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “Unfortunately that female detective woman is convinced my brother and I are guilty. No question about it. She has it in for us. Davey for this murder and me for the one thirteen years ago.”

“There wasn’t enough evidence to charge you then, what makes her think you’re guilty now?”

The heat from his glare pushed me back. “You don’t think she’s going to let anything like facts get in her way, do you? Why do you think she got that ‘Tank’ nickname? She’s going to run us both down flat unless we confess.”

“Which you aren’t going to do,” I said.

The look in his eyes shifted. “If I could get Davey off the hook long enough to find the real killer, I’d consider it.”

“You can’t be serious.”

He rubbed the side of his face. “Everything about this investigation is wrong. Just like last time.”

Tank had referred to Davey as “damaged goods” and Jack had admitted that Davey was “unstable.” Maybe there was more to this story than I’d been led to believe.

“There’s no way Davey could have been involved with Lyle’s murder, is there?”

Jack’s face registered shock, then anger. “Why would you even say such a thing?”

Backpedaling quickly, I said, “I’m just trying to imagine what the police are thinking. You mentioned how Davey hasn’t been the same since you were accused. Maybe there’s more to the story.”

“No way. Not a chance. He was fourteen, for crying out loud,” Jack said. A moment later he continued, more calmly, “Davey was such a sweet kid up until then. The best of all of us. Outgoing and optimistic. Friends with everyone. But that all changed after I got accused.” He stared up at the ceiling. “Our older brother, Keith, had just graduated college the year before. He was away a lot, but tried his best to help by doing ‘big brother’ stuff with Davey just to clear the air. But it didn’t work. Davey pulled further away. It’s obvious Davey believes I murdered Lyle. He’s been haunted by that tragedy ever since.”

I took a sip of my wine and after an extended silence, changed the subject. “Bennett wants me to move into Abe’s old cottage,” I said, and told him about the proposal.

Jack’s expression softened. “How do you feel about that?”

“Honestly? Not too thrilled. I mean, the idea of living where everything is taken care of for me, and of having my current house restored to its original grandeur is tempting beyond belief.” I thought about telling him more about the real reason Bennett wanted me nearby—about the possible blood ties my family might have with the Marshfields—but this was not the right moment. I hadn’t told anyone beyond Bruce and Scott. Maybe I never would.

“What?” he asked. “You just drifted about a million miles away.”

I smiled. “I was just thinking about Bruce and Scott.” That wasn’t a lie. “They’re more than roommates. They’re my friends. Really the only friends I’ve made since I moved back here.”

Jack took my hand. “Not your only friends.”

Tingling warmth raced up my arm through my chest, to my face where I felt myself blush. “Thank you,” I said.

He didn’t let go. His dark eyes had lost their angry intensity and had acquired a very different sort of passion. “I think about you,” he said simply, “all the time.”

I thought about him all the time, too. Unfortunately lately, that had less to do with matters of the heart and more to do with murders, old and new.

He let go. “I’ve enjoyed getting to know you, Grace. But I want to know you better. I understand this is a tough time—for both of us. But you moved back here to create a life for yourself and I’ve lived here forever. There’s no rush. I’ll wait for you.” He gave a shy smile. “This kind of rough patch has the power to split people apart. So right there we’re luckier than most. We can’t split up because you and I aren’t officially together yet.”

I laughed. “Good point.”

The mood had lightened considerably, thank goodness. I wanted to keep it that way.

“So . . . I’m sure you get this question a lot,” I began.

His eyebrows came together as he waited for me to finish.

“But . . . your family name is Embers . . .”

“Last time I checked.”

“Ha ha. And the town’s name . . .”

He sighed. “Is Emberstowne. You’re right, I do get that question a lot. Mostly from newbies. People who haven’t lived here all their lives.”

I held my hands up. “Can I help it my dad moved us away when I was young?”

He shrugged. “Not much to tell, really.”

“I don’t believe that for a minute.”

He settled in, elbows on the table, leaning forward. “There’s the town history and then there’s the family history. Which do you want?”

“Both.”

He nodded. “Town history is quick and easy. Henry and Martha Embers came here from England before the American Revolutionary War. With them they brought sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, friends, and anyone else who was game for adventure. This group named the town, were pillars of the community, and formed a strong allegiance to their adopted land. Without the Embers’s influence, this might just all be a pretty place in the country.” Winking, he said, “That’s the official version.”

“And the real version?”

Wagging his head from side to side, he said, “It changes some depending on what branch of the family is telling it, but from what I’ve been told, Henry was the son of a wealthy member of the British aristocracy. But Henry was a ne’er-do-well . . .”

“Ne’er-do-well?” I repeated. “What generation are you?”

He held up a finger, grinning. “I’m telling it like it was told to me, remember? Henry flunked out of school, couldn’t hold a job, and was in and out of jail for everything from public indecency to attempted murder.”

“Nice guy.”

“Yeah. Things got so bad that his father disowned him. Very bad times for Henry.”

“Let me guess, that’s when he came to America.”

“You got it in one,” Jack said. “Managed to talk his way into a job on a ship sailing west and eventually found himself in the Carolina territory.”

“What about Martha?”

Jack took a drink of his beer. “The captain was bringing his own family to the new world,” he said. “Martha was his sixteen-year-old daughter. She ran off with scalawag Henry the moment the ship docked.”

“Scalawag?”

He shrugged. “Turns out old Henry just needed a change of venue, I guess. He and Martha set up a small dry goods store and named it Embers General. They were barely making ends meet when the Revolutionary War began. Henry joined up immediately, fought hard, and was commended by all his superiors. Returned here a real hero. No doubt he enjoyed thumbing his nose at his father by fighting their mother country. Either way, he and Martha flourished. After the war, word of Henry’s valor got around and their little business took off, the town got named after him, and the rest, as they say, is history.”

“Succinct.”

He took another drink. “The truth is probably somewhere between the two.”

“Where was their store?”

“Not far from your roommates’ shop. There’s a tiny plaque marking the building. I’ll show you sometime.”

“That would be great.”

Another extended moment of silence but this time it was quiet and contented. With the way the evening had begun, I would never have predicted this.